Memoirs of 1888
by ComplicatedDisorder
Summary: Why does Sebastian Michaelis grin?


_Note:_

This is an analysis on basically – Why does Sebastian Michaelis grin?

I mean, he's a demon, you would have expected demonhood to catch up along with monotony.

But for some reason, he still grins when he's around Ciel, even if it's a smirk. And that counts for something notorious, right?

But anyway, this has a reference to Maiden of the Moon's "hunger is an oppressive feeling" metaphor thingie. I'll reveal the meaning behind this at the end if you don't know yet because you haven't read her stuff and shame on you, really.

If you recognize this from my RP account, you love me either way. Or maybe not, if you are Faustus. Anyway, I hope you are not the young master. And you do not show this to the young master. Because if what I write has SebxCiel undertones, so what, you read SebxCiel. Ho.

Enjoy.

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Memoirs of 1888 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

The sun rose that morning in a way that was in no manner abrupt and prominent. Rather, its rays dispersed across the convex skies gradually and discreetly, stretching into a uniform blanket that muffled the blue hue it covered into a dull gray that hardly encouraged anyone to rise from slumber. There were still marked streams of sunlight seeping through scant chasms across the homogenous giant reaching from one visible horizon to the opposite, and these were regarded with a certain optimism by the servants in the household as they woke. Sore from their attempts the day of yesterday (all futile, the butler can't help but remark), he heard them rise, yawn, stretch, and, for lack of better conversation, discuss the weather, adding prognostic surmises as an end to their morning ritual and a start to the day ahead.

The butler of the Phantomhive mansion has no morning rituals. He notes the gloomy weather only because he hears it mentioned from the rooms besides his, forms an ephemeral mental image, and continues to attend to paperwork. The pen works across the desk in staccato loops and swirls as repeated statements fill in the blank papers; account records, money transactions, business letters, along an ample stack of contracts. The pen swishes dramatically to mark an elegant halt to the content of a letter, which is then enclosed in an envelope, finally sealed by indigo-colored wax and the protruding gorges that sharply mark the Phantomhive emblem in all indigo pride. The butler rises, adjusts the chair, and proceeds to the small washroom adjacent to his bed. A clock fixed on the wall attests to the butler's actions without partaking, ignored and useless; it effaces its existence by modest_ tick_'s and _tock_'s.

**6:53**, it reads as the butler enters the washroom and stands before a medium mirror.

A stale examination of his reflection brings his gloved hands up to his hair, smoothing the raven locks and then sliding low to his shirt's collar, ridding it of creases. The fact that this is a mere preparation, and he is already closing the door behind him, climbing stairs, remembering the schedule as he nears the main bedchamber, and the fact that nothing he does is personal or selfish, but all for his master in every extend of his actions, is prime evidence of a very particular notion.

The Phantomhive butler is _one Hell of a butler._

There is no need to knock. The door swings gently open and allows him inside. He makes his way to the drapes and removes them to the sides, letting a dull stream of gray light cascade into the room. A cloudy day only means that his young master would be more unwilling than usual to acknowledge the commencement of a new day, and that to him, is significant enough. The butler approaches the bed and stands by it, his gaze resting upon the small body sprawled against the mattress, comfortably tangled in the pale sheets. _Time to wake up, young master. _No, not yet.

A prolonged observation allows him to appreciate the slow manner in which the child's chest heaves, rising as it greedily sucks in the available oxygen, falling as it releases the scraps of survival back to the world. It is a romantic comparison to the process denominated _exhaling, _yet the appellation falls short of what the butler really sees behind the metaphor. There is no vacillation in his master's breathing, as every breath is like a measured pattern that naturally develops between short intervals of silence when his lips remain parted and unmoving. With a gradual awareness that had grown unexpected and rampant, the butler's brows furrowed in distaste.

_Hunger is an oppressive feeling. _

But then, he remembers again that his master's breathing does not fluctuate. It is steady and deep, there is not a lapse of weakness, and if there should be one, rationality would take over and drag in life once again. Such is his young master's soul. The thought tugs his lips back into a grin that conveys a superficial manner of acute mischief or a general humorous attitude depending on the way one would look at it, but truth to be accounted for, it is plain, honest satisfaction. And perhaps _that_ is his morning ritual, if he had one at all. The trademark grin of Sebastian Michaelis has ignited his features and will remain there. The grin, he had to admit, was the only selfish display, a manifestation of underlying **greed**.

"Time to wake up, young master."

Because, undeniably and inevitably, the Phantomhive butler is _ravenous, _but the wait is pleasant, for every day, the fine meal would ripe in the most succulent manners. And Sebastian is sufficiently patient for his young master.

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Memoirs of 1888 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

"Hunger is an oppressive feeling." – Moony

"In Earth, this desire is often called "love." In Hell, I feign they recognize it as Hunger." – C. S. Lewis


End file.
